Daydreaming of the Night
by Sailing for my Dreams
Summary: Erik loves Christine, but after a devastating betrayal, can he find that there is another? And will a young orphaned violinist realize at last that she doesn't have to be alone? Erik/OC (Rated T just in case. I am new to fanfiction so feedback would be helpful. Thanks!).
1. Chapter 1

_**Daydreaming of the Night**_

**Clarie's POV: **

"_Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye."_

As La Carlotta's beautifully trained voice poured over the nearly empty opera hall, Clarie could feel her thoughts begin to drift away. Towards the better times; towards the worse times. It happened so naturally that her fingers did not even seem to notice and continued to move.

"_Remember me, once in a while_

_Please promise me you'll try_

_Then you'll find that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free_

_If you ever find a moment_

_Spare a thought for me."_

Clarie couldn't help it. The song forced her to remember.

"_Clarie! Look how much you have grown!" the Comte de Chagny greeted warmly as he placed a kiss on her hand._

"_Thank you, Monsieur," the newly orphaned fifteen year old, Clarie Mercier, said quietly to her cousin and new guardian._

"_Wonderful," the slightly aged man said with a smile. Gesturing to the younger man behind him, who was only vaguely familiar to Clarie, he said, "Mademoiselle Clarie, I am sure you remember your cousin Raoul." _

_Raoul, a handsome young man who was a few years older than Clarie, nodded at her. "Mademoiselle," was his short greeting. She returned it with one similar as they walked from the station._

_Though Clarie was quite content to sit in silence when they were in the carriage, the Comte de Chagny kept talking, forcing her to reply._

"_I am so sorry to hear about your parents, my dear," he was saying. "They were such loving souls. But rest assured, Miss Clarie, I will make sure you are taken care of."_

"_Yes, Monsieur," Clarie had muttered absently._

"_I heard you play the violin, do you not?" the Comte persisted._

"_Yes, Monsieur," Clarie said without a flicker of interest. She despised her violin these days. In fact, she despised any kind of music. It was far too painful for her to think about._

"_Excellent!" the Comte all but cheered. This pried a reaction from Clarie as she raised an eyebrow, wondering where indeed she was going to live._

"Stop! Stop! Stop! Mademoiselle Mercier!"

The conductor so startled Clarie that she practically threw her violin to the ground. She looked up at Monsieur Fontaine in wide-eyed astonishment.

"Mademoiselle," the red faced director huffed, "this is the third time this week that I have caught you not paying attention! The show is tonight! Do you really want to ruin it for everyone with your idiotic daydreaming?"

Clarie's face burned bright red. "Forgive me, Monsieur," she said hurriedly, "it won't happen again."

"You had better see that it doesn't," the stocky man replied, puffing hot air through his large, steaming nose. "I am sure we can find another first violinist if need be."

He couldn't. Everyone knew it was impossible. Clarie was one of the few, and perhaps the most skilled, violinists for cities all around. With this information in mind, Monsieur Fontaine seemed to grow all the more indignant.

"From the top of 'Think of Me!'" he cried, rocketing his hands into position. "This time, just Mademoiselle Clarie."

Every instrumentalist turned their heads to look at Clarie, who at this point had turned a dark shade of pink, her face burning with humiliation. Gulping nervously, she complied and lifted her violin to her chin. She was determined not to make a complete fool of herself.

Monsieur Fontaine's hands began to move, and so did Clarie's.

What happened next was a shock to everyone.

Her skilled fingers slid forward and backwards in a sort of hypnotic way, the bow pushing across her violin, and then back. In one moment it would look like she was barely touching the instrument, and the next she would go to a crescendo. The music was sweet, and soft, and heartbreaking. Somehow managed to take the song-which most of the orchestra was sick of hearing after so many practices-and complete transform it.

The lyrics whispered from her violin, as if the prima donna herself were in it. A whisper it was, a murmur, unsaid words which had turned to ashes so long ago. Just with the song, she turned her heart full of ashes into a blazing fire again; and it was so beautiful that one might have wondered if she had plans to burn down the opera with a mere instrument.

It was as if an angel had taken possession of her violin.

_Remember me, once in a while_

_Please promise me you'll try_

Clarie closed her eyes and plunged head first into her daydreams.

**Erik's POV:**

Erik had been on his way to Christine's dressing room when he heard her.

Or her violin, as he was now finding out.

But…that couldn't be right, could it? He was astonished. How could a simple instrument sound so like an angel? It might have even been comparable. But as he watched this girl play-dark haired and quite lovely despite her youthful years-he found that he could not put a name to the face. And how could he? He never paid any attention to the orchestra.

So why was he now?

The music stopped, and the large conductor cleared his throat.

"Very well done, Mademoiselle Clarie," he said, sounding a bit irritable at her ability. Erik smiled faintly from his shadowy spot in the empty box five. So her name was Clarie.

"I think that ends practice," the director continued, "get some rest before tonight's rehearsal."

Erik's smile faded, replaced by a look of thoughtfulness. He watched as the musician with the brown curly hair disappear behind the curtain. She was intriguing, that was for sure.

He resolved to keep a close eye on her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:**

**Here's Chapter 2! Let me know what you think! **

**Disclaimer:**

**I own nothing!**

* * *

**Clarie's POV:**

"_But promise me_

_That sometimes_

_You will think of me!"_

Christine Daaé fell to the floor, where she received her tremendous round of applause for her triumphant solo. The opera hall had perhaps never been so full of cheering before. The beautiful new singer took her bow before she left the grand stage.

Clarie was happy, if a little surprised, at her friend's success. She wished to be able to go congratulate her friend, but her part in the production was far from over.

The next hour, once the audience managed to calm itself, passed in a blurred confusion. Clarie wished to be able to lose herself in the music, as she always used to, but she knew better than to expect such things. Thus, each moment was all the more annoying to her. All she wished was to go back to her room. Crowds never much pleased her.

After the curtain finally drew closed, many of the players in the orchestra told Clarie how wonderfully she played that evening. Even Monsieur Fontaine managed a begrudging note of his approval to her. Most of the praise, however, was reserved for Christine Daaé. And rightfully so, in Clarie's opinion. Her voice had been stunning that evening! Clarie didn't even know she _could_ sing.

The door to Clarie's small room finally appeared, and she sighed in relief as she felt the brass handle at long, long last.

"Miss Mercier."

Clarie paused at the door, sighing to herself. In retrospect, she should have expected that the evening wouldn't come to an end so easily for her. Even with the entire opera distracted by Christine.

She turned around with a start. "Oh, hello, Madame Giry," she greeted quickly.

The black-dressed widow walked up to Clarie, visible frown lines showing in her aged features.

"Mademoiselle," she said curtly, "you were excellent this evening."

This short praise surprised Clarie. Madame Giry never paid attention to the orchestra. Why did she care now?

"Merci, Madame," Clarie replied, somewhat confused.

Her confusion grew even more when the woman pulled out a rose from behind her back.

"I was told to deliver this to you," she said, handing her the flower.

"Oh my," Clarie breathed, unused to such gifts, "do you know who they are from?"

"I was told not to say," said Madame Giry. With a swift nod, she turned as if to leave. Clarie moved to close the door behind her, assuming the woman had said all that she had needed to say, but before she could Madame Giry's voice came once more.

"I saw the Comte de Chagny earlier. Perhaps your guardians have come to pay a visit."

With that, the woman walked off, toward Christine's room, by Clarie's guess. She raised an eyebrow in the direction of the concierge as she closed the door behind her. _Madame Giry is acting strange today, _she thought.

She seriously doubted any sort of visit from her guardians, not tonight at least. They would likely be swarming Christine Daaé's room along with everyone else.

_Especially Monsieur l'Vicomte, _thought Clarie with a guilty smirk. As soon as the thought entered her mind she scolded herself. _Leave him alone. He's in love. _

The word love was an understatement of Raoul's emotion toward Christine. Clarie knew she wasn't supposed to know that, but after three weeks of being left alone to wander around the de Chagny mansion, one got to know its inhabitants. There were boxes upon boxes of old letters toward a childhood friend: Christine Daaé. Clarie hadn't known until she came to the opera hall for her audition that the same Christine was still in Paris.

"At least one of us is happy," Clarie murmured, twirling the rose absentmindedly in her hand as she sat on the bed.

It was a strange thing to her, the rose. It was perhaps the loveliest flower she knew, so elegant, so beautiful. Yet if you were to touch it, you would find that it's dangerous. Touch its stem, and you get pricked.

_Looks can be deceiving,_ Clarie thought. She rested the flower against her pillow and sat up. Her hand flew to the chain around her neck.

_Looks can be very deceiving. _

Suddenly Clarie found herself rushing over to her wardrobe, her hands digging desperately inside of it. Within seconds they felt what she was looking for, and she all but ripped the box out. And then it was there, in her hands.

It wasn't terribly expensive. Actually, some might have found it rather commonplace. But to Clarie, it meant everything. Because it wasn't just any music box.

It was her mother's music box.

Gently, she began to twirl the old handle on the side of the box. There was a slight pause at first-it _had _been a while since Clarie had used it, after all-and then the sweet, familiar melody of her childhood began to drift out.

Just hearing the tune made Clarie shiver. She gripped the box until her fingers turned white. Her mind, rather than drifting, dove headfirst into the music, bringing her back to better times.

Bringing her back to her parents.

"_You are my child of moonlight," _Clarie murmured the lullaby softly.

"_You call the angels down._

_There is a peace within my heart,_

_Whenever you're around."_

A solitary tear fell from the girl's right eye, soon accompanied by others. They leaked down her face in a silent river. The pain had once again filled her heart, quiet and familiar and almost unbearable.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and tried unsuccessfully to force the tears away.

It didn't work.

The quiet music continued its melancholy song, and the tears continued their trail down her face.

"I miss you, Maman," she whispered, "I miss you, Papa."

The tears were coming steadily now. Clarie drew in a shaky breath.

"Why am I so alone?" she murmured as she surrendered to the tears.

How was she to know that she wasn't alone?

* * *

**Author's note:**

**Sorry, kind of a sad ending :(. I know there was a lack of phantom in this chapter, don't worry, he'll be here soon enough.**

**Review please!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note:**

**I just want to apologize in advance for the inevitable suckiness of this chapter. I got my wisdom teeth out this weekend and my mouth has hurt sooo much today. :/ What you read I will have written while on pain meds… sorry.**

**Oh, and I realized too late that I forgot to put a disclaimer on Clarie's lullaby yesterday. It wasn't original, I used a portion of a lullaby I found online. It is called "Child of moonlight". I thought it went nicely with the story :).**

**Disclaimer:**

**If I owned Phantom of the Opera it would have turned out way worse.**

**Erik's POV:**

Furious didn't even begin to cover the emotion Erik was feeling. His masked face couldn't seem to figure out what color to become to properly display his feelings. Not that it mattered what color his face was anyway, as he stormed through the dimly lit passageways of the long-abandoned halls only he knew about.

What was the cause of his anger? It-or she-was the very thing that he had never suspected could be capable of angering him.

Christine Daaé. Just thinking of the girl's name made him grow angry all over again. He glared ahead and his hand tightened on the lantern he carried.

_After all I did for you._

Christine! That little traitor! Did she think he would not see the way she looked at the viscount? That she could go off to dinner with him without as much as a second thought of her angel?

_I gave you your voice! I am the reason for your success!_

Rage welled up inside of Erik. His eyes were no longer reliable, as he could not concentrate on the passage in front of him. He had to stop, almost throwing the lantern in the process.

_I gave you your voice…_

Erik had to bite down on his hand to stop himself from screaming in rage. He found himself wishing that he had brought his Punjab lasso with him. Perhaps if Christine saw her precious dandy of a man hanging from the ceiling, she would think twice before betraying him again.

But Erik knew in his heart that this plan, satisfying though it might be, would never be effective. He would never be able to trust Christine after tonight's performance.

_You will curse this day, Mademoiselle._

Promptly deciding to deal with the traitor at a later date, Erik tried to put his mind on something more pleasant.

_Mademoiselle Clarie was excellent this evening._

She _was _excellent, but still Erik found little pleasure in this fact. He couldn't even remember why he had been so fascinated with her earlier that day. How could she be of any use to him? She played violin; she couldn't—

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

"_You are my child of moonlight."_

It was a lullaby, Erik realized. He jumped to his feet, listening for the source of the song. He had never heard a voice like it before. It was angelic, and perhaps the saddest he could remember hearing.

"_You call the angels down."_

Erik found the source, and pulled at a curtain, revealing a mirror.

Or a double-sided mirror, to be exact. There were many of them in the rooms of the opera house, thus how he was able to communicate with Christine without revealing his face.

So now, as he lifted the curtain from its place, he saw the singer. And he was surprised. It was the violinist, more specifically, it was Clarie.

She was sunk down on her knees, still in the blue dress she had worn during the opera that night. Curly black hair fell in front of entrancing blue-green eyes. In front of her sat an old looking music box, from which music was coming.

"_There is a peace within my heart," _she was singing, "_whenever you're around."_

The music box continued to play, but Clarie stopped. Tears began to drip down her face, slowly, sadly.

Erik was shocked. So the violinist could sing after all. And she sang well! Even without training she seemed incapable of singing out of key. Music was familiar to her.

_She might even be comparable to Christine._

This girl was quickly entrancing Erik. He looked at her curiously, the unspoken question in his heart: why was she crying?

He soon got his answer.

"I miss you, Maman," she whispered, so quietly that Erik could barely hear her, "I miss you, Papa."

_So she is an orphan, _Erik thought.

Just mentioning her parents seemed to put the girl over the edge, sending her into almost hysterical sobbing.

"Maman…Papa…" she murmured tenderly between cries. Erik felt a twinge in his heart, as if he was breaking a sacred law by observing this fragile creature in such a moment of grief.

It tooke several minutes of crying before the young girl was able to somewhat pull herself together. When she did, Erik leaned in to hear what was being said.

"Maman, Papa," she began hesitantly, "why…why have you left me all alone?" The grief in her voice was the saddest and most raw that Erik had ever heard. Her hands trembled as she stood to her feet, her head looking up toward an unseen ghost.

"Why have you abandoned me?" she exclaimed, suddenly and bitterly. She didn't continue for a moment, choking on a sob. After several rapid breaths she continued.

"What have I done to deserve this? Why have you left me?" Clarie barely finished the last word before she could speak no longer. She broke down and wept on the ground, leaving Erik at a loss for words as he watched.

"Papa…Maman…"Clarie moaned, "Where are you?"

At that moment, Erik made a decision, without fully understanding the reason why.

_Perhaps Christine isn't the only one in need of the angel of music._

**Author's note:**

**Hi, it's me again.. I know, I've been talking a lot in this chapter. But I need your opinions. In the next chapter (I have already written it, I'm just editing it right now) there is going to be some singing with Clarie and the Phantom. No, this isn't going to become a musical, it's just going to be the two of them. **

**But I need to know what you guys think. How do you feel about it? Cheesy? Love it? Hate it? There are no wrong reviews. It would mean so much if you reviewed. Thank you!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note:**

**Hey… I am so sorry for the long wait, I have been busy playing catch-up with my school work… I'll admit it, I wasn't even going to post a chapter today. But then Music of the Night came on my Pandora and the guilt was too much! Curse you, Ramin Karimloo! Why must you be so perfect? **

**Oh yeah, probably a good time to mention that most of my head canons are 25****th****. *Obvious coughing* Ramin Karimloo. *cough* freaking most perfect man alive. (Besides Aaron Tveit. No I will not apologize for that ;) ).**

**So…yeah. As much as I know you all love my blabbering I'll let you get to the chapter. **

**Disclaimer:**

**I own NOTHING!**

**Clarie's POV:**

Clarie was furious with herself, for many reasons. She angrily scrubbed at the tears on her face, but they were only replaced by more.

_You are such a fool, _she scolded herself,_ it's been months. Why are you still crying?_

"Precious fool, I am," she bitterly said aloud, but it didn't have the sting she was feeling, since the tears continued their relentless journey down her face.

The music box was all too clear out of the corner of her eyes.

Clarie glared menacingly at the object. Why had she even taken it out? The music wasn't comforting; it was mocking.

And it just would not stop.

Laughing, mocking, irritating.

_I hate music, _Clarie thought, and for a long, horrible moment she believed it.

But then she heard the voice.

In a single moment, everything changed.

**Erik's POV:**

Erik's eyes widened even as the name left his mouth. _Clarie._ He cursed his sheer stupidity. There was no turning back now.

Clarie had of course heard her name. The walls really weren't that thick after all. Her purely virginal eyes widened with-what was it? Fear? Wonder? Was it really possible that it was both?-and she scrambled to her feet with the grace of a three legged dog.

"Who is there?" she demanded shakily.

Erik's lips pressed together in a thin line. So it was fear in her eyes. He wasn't sure exactly what he wanted with this girl, but her fear definitely wasn't it. With this in mind, he spoke again, putting a melodic ring to it.

"Clarie…Clarie." He spoke smoothly, musically. Music was, after all, the very thing that had perked his interest with this girl.

The color in Clarie's face was an odd mixture: at once pale with fright and red with embarrassment. She rushed over to her bedroom door, almost knocking over an unlit candle in the process, and searched the halls for her admirer in vein. Erik waited patiently for a moment, until Clarie realized that no one was out in the hall, and closed the door again. Her eyes darted to every object in the room in a matter of seconds.

"Who is there?" she repeated. Straightening up a bit, she attempted to look brave, but nothing could hide the fear in her eyes. Erik was all too familiar with that look. He did, however, realize that it was having a strange effect on him, but could not put his finger yet on what it was.

"Who is there?" Clarie repeated a third time. Erik shook his head, forcibly shaking himself out of his daze.

An idea came to him.

Christine isn't the only one in need of the angel of music. That was what he had thought earlier, was it not? He would do just what he had done with Christine.

He began to sing.

"_Innocent child, so lost in daydreams." _Erik didn't even question the fact that he was changing the song. It seemed natural to him. Why would he not? Clarie and Christine were, after all, two entirely different people. _"Yearning for a guardian."_

Clarie had given up looking around, and instead focused her attention on a wall near the mirror. "Who is…who is there," she muttered, apparently to herself.

"_Left all alone, in the care of no one." _Frowning, Erik considered this. Indeed, it did seem as if she were in the care of no one. No one had even paid her a visit!

The terror was slowly draining from her eyes, replaced by an odd look of wonder mixed with hope.

"Father?" she whispered. "Is it you?" After saying it aloud, she leaned over, drawing a little farther into herself. A look of embarrassment was plastered onto her face. It was obvious that she had been scolded many times for her thoughts.

Erik did not think she should be ashamed.

"_Dare you believe in angels?" _he finished, softly.

Whiter than the wool of a sheep, Clarie clumsily stepped backwards. She looked dazed, as if just waking up from an especially strange dream. Sweat was forming on her small forehead. Her hand moved as if completely separated from her frantic mind, and pulled out a chair which she promptly fell into.

"Angels?" was all her shaking voice could muster. In the dying candlelight, Erik noted the tears forming in her eyes with amazement. One pearl of grief trickled around her nose, outlining her high cheek bones. It was quickly followed by another.

Time suspended the two of them for a moment. Erik gazed at her tear-filled eyes; she fidgeted with her hands, hidden from sight beneath the fabric of her dress. Erik couldn't bring himself to speak, or continue his song. He was too curious. What was she going to do?

Clarie herself didn't seem to know. For a long, eerily quiet minute she just stared at her unplaying music box, the ballerina on which had long ceased her dance.

Then Clarie laughed. It was a short, breathy, self-desecrating laugh. One might not even call it a laugh at all, with all the sadness lingering behind it. How could one associate that noise with the word used to describe a sound one would make out of happiness? It was perhaps even sadder than the girl's tears.

"My, Clarie," she muttered, "perhaps you are even more far gone than they thought. Look at you, speaking of angels. Just like…" and then Clarie's eyes travelled to the ceiling, a new amusement in their seafoam-like pearliness.

Erik leaned forward, as if to better hear the girl. Not that it was quite possible, with him being so close as it was.

"Just like Mother…" Clarie finished. She laughed again, but this time with all the joy of a girl after hearing a particularly funny joke.

To say that this caught Erik off guard was more than an understatement. He was at once fascinated and mystified by her. He couldn't seem to be able to predict anything the girl did, which made her all the more different from Christine.

Christine had always been comfortable; there was nothing she did (aside from tonight) that could surprise Erik. With Clarie however, it was like he was plunging headfirst into a never before discovered land. Already he felt as if he had experienced more of the land's wonders than most of the opera house could ever dream of experiencing.

_You doubt yourself so often._

Clarie's eyes, before twinkling with something vaguely similar to delight, abruptly flew wide open with horror. Erik's own eyes did much the same. Had he just said that out loud?

Confirming his thought, Clarie sprang up to her still unsteady feet.

"No," she murmured. Echoing the word much more loudly, she screamed.

"No!"

And before Erik had time to process what was happening, his newly discovered land ran from the room, a flicker in the wind: there and gone without a trace. Once again, Erik was left clinging to driftwood in the ever-changing and always unforgiving sea.

**Author's note:**

**HUGE thanks to all the reviews, favorites, and follows. You all seriously have no idea how much they all mean to me. I wasn't even going to continue this, but you all kept me going and I honestly cannot thank you enough. Again, I am SO, so, so sorry for taking so long to update. **

**But I have recently come up with so many more ideas for this story. I am realllllly excited to share them all with you. I am pretty proud of them and I thank you for allowing me to share them with you. You guys are the best!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: I'll keep this short and sweet. Thank you guys so much for everything! Here's a long chapter for you. **

**Disclaimer: I own Clarie!…that's about it.**

**Clarie's POV:**

Running as fast as her two legs could carry her, Clarie could feel the painful thumping of her heart against her chest. She couldn't bring herself to stop, though. So she pushed and shoved her way through the fairly crowded opera house, not even bothering to hide the trails of tears that didn't seem to ever leave her alone.

Another turn…Another hallway…Another shove of some rich patron…One more stairway…

And at last she was there.

As she burst through the door onto the roof of the opera, cold air flooded her lungs. She almost crumpled in the doorway with the imminent relief. For a long while, all she could do was take several quick, shaky breaths.

_Breathe in…Breathe out…Breathe in…Breathe out._

Clarie continued this process for a very long time before her lungs finally began to work properly. When she could, she let out a huge sigh of relief. Her breathing problems could be bad sometimes, especially when she was panicking. It was why she played violin, an instrument that didn't require sharp breaths of air, although playing the flute came so easy to her mother.

It was just another reason why so many people avoided her.

And as for the voice in her room, Clarie tore her thoughts away. She had just regained her breathing, and it would be nice to keep it for a few moments. She turned her mind to other things, rubbing the scar above her wrist absently.

Unfortunately, the thoughts that the scar brought up weren't much better than her current ones.

"_Clarie, are you ready to go?" Clarie's father, Antoine, asked as he knocked on his only daughter's door. He was clad in a very nice and new looking suit, that Clarie thought didn't quite seem to fit him. Constantly tugging at his sleeve-as he did not much like dressing up-he looked expectantly at her for an answer._

_Clarie nodded, smoothing out the edges of her red satin dress. Like her father, she never enjoyed the all too tight feelings of the clothes._

"_As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose," she replied with a forced smile._

_Antoine squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the top of her head. For a moment, he remained in that position, looking down at his daughter and smiling._

"_What?" Clarie asked, feeling self-conscious._

_His lips parted into a very white smile with rows of perfectly straight teeth. It was a smile Clarie had seen countless times, and envied._

"_I love you so much," he said with pure honesty. Like his smile, this sentence was also familiar to Clarie, but it never seemed to lose its meaning or warmth. She smiled._

"Stop it!" Clarie cried forcefully. She placed her hands on each ear, trying hard to get the infernal memories out of her head. They always went to the same place, and it was not a good one.

But, as they always were, they were persistent. There was no way Clarie would be able to stop them.

_Clarie and her father stood there for a few seconds. Antoine rubbed the spot between her shoulders, offering her comfort only he could: that special kind of comfort that can only exist between a father and his daughter._

_Suddenly a scream ripped through the air._

"_Antoine!"_

_Both father and daughter's eyes widened, and the two ran toward the source of the horrified noise. _

_Toward Clarie's mother._

A scream vibrated in Clarie's ears, and it took her a moment to realize that it was her own. She was crouched down on the ground, desperately trying to purge those thoughts from her brain. But it was useless, and soon fiery images filled her mind like the very depths of hell.

Fire. Blood. Screams. It might very well have been hell; it most certainly was for Clarie.

"_Clarie!" Antoine shouted, squeezing his eyes through the smoke. He coughed and gestured for his petrified daughter to follow him, unable to make much noise besides the constant hacking._

"_Papa!" Clarie gasped. She ran forward, but was abruptly stopped by the sound of a horrific crack. She froze, thankfully for her, as in the next second a fiery ceiling board crashed down._

"_Clarie!" _

"_Papa!" was Clarie's terrified reply. It was useless; there was no way she would be able to reach him now. Fire was the only thing she could see. Hot tears painfully filled up her eyes, both from horror and the smoke. This was it. She was separated, separated forever._

_Her breath failed her. _

_Shaky hands flew to her throat, trying so hard to allow breath back into her lungs. Her face had the look of a fish out of water, lips opening and closing, with barely any oxygen passing through them. _

_Raspy breath after raspy breath after raspy breath._

The eyes Clarie hadn't realized she had closed flew open. A gasp attempted to leave her throat, but without success. Her whole frame was shaking, and her hands were in an all too accustomed position on her throat.

_Not again._

Raspy breath after raspy breath…

And then nothing.

**Erik's POV:**

Erik stared in utter horror at Clarie from his spot behind a statue. Currently, the girl was doubled over, and it looked disturbingly like she could not breathe. Her frame was heaving up and down, as if from the effort of breathing; yet, when Erik caught a glimpse of her mouth, he could see no air pass through it.

Wildly, his heart began to beat faster and faster. At once, all thoughts whatsoever of Christine were extinguished from his brain. Christine was a mere candlelight compared to the forest fire he was watching. This girl might die.

And it would be all Erik's fault.

Determination such as he had never felt before swelled over him. He would not, he _could _not, let Clarie die.

But there was the problem of his identity. And besides that, what good could he do? If anything, he might make things worse.

_Think! _he commanded himself. _Think!_

An idea came to him. He prayed-and praying was something quite unknown to him-that it would work.

"_You are my child of moonlight." _He started out quietly, just loud enough for her to hear, trying to swallow down his nerves.

Clarie froze; and then shuddered. It was working. Erik took in a gulp of air, for the first time realizing how much he took the ability to do so for granted. He raised his voice, continuing to replicate the song he had only briefly heard.

"_You call the angels down."_

Clarie gulped. She straightened out, already considerably more calm looking. A breath of air entered her lungs, and then that breath was followed by another.

"_There is a peace within my heart,_

_Whenever you're around."_

Erik sighed in relief at his success. It had worked. Once again she was breathing somewhat normally. She was now looking up, searching for the voice.

"Who are you?" she whispered so that Erik could barely hear her.

"I am your angel of music," Erik said. He stole one last glance at Clarie, and then he sank back into the dark passages.

Clarie stood there in awe for a few more minutes, and then she, too, left the rooftop.

**Clarie's POV:**

It was close to morning. Clarie could tell from her many sleepless nights. It would still be dark outside, but only for perhaps an hour or so. Clarie would awake when it did, for how could she sleep? After everything that had happened to her tonight?

In her mind she ran through the events continuously, like a track stuck on repeat. Clarie knew what the others would think, if she told them. They would think her a silly girl, rolling their eyes as if at a child. _Clarie, you were only dreaming, _they would say, _stories like that can't come true. _

But she wasn't dreaming! It was real! Usually doubt would creep into her mind with such things as this, but now she was sure beyond even a fragment of a doubt. It was real. _He was real. _Not only was he her "angel of music," as he called himself, but her guardian angel as well. He quite possibly saved her life on that rooftop.

Clarie squeezed her eyes shut and held her pillow tighter.

_He is real…He is real._

**Erik's POV:**

Like he did every night, Erik was pounding his well taught fingers into the keys of his organ.

If anyone could hear him while he played every night, they would fall down to their knees with the majesty that the pain in his heart pours through his hands. He never wrote down his masterpieces, and he never played the same one twice, but the pain and anger in the songs would have never failed to amaze.

But tonight was different.

There was no pain in his song, nor was there anger. Erik himself noticed this and was a little surprised at what he was playing. He didn't fight it, though. He never did. So he allowed his fingers to continue.

What was it in Erik's song? Perhaps nobody will ever know. If Erik did not even know what it was, then no one could know, for he was alone.

However, Christine did not cross his thoughts once.

**Author's note:**

**Just so you guys know, Clarie has stress-induced asthma. I'm not sure if asthma had an official diagnosis back then, but I'm pretty sure she couldn't whip out an inhaler every time she can't breathe. That's why it's so serious in the story. (Foreshadowing? Possibly… ;))**

**Review, please! You guys are the best!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: **

**Hello! Got up reallll early to finish this chapter for you guys. I would have had it finished yesterday but I had band until 11 and then a huge amount of homework (Story of my life).**

**Cue dreams from Clarie and Erik. This chapter might be a little slow (I hope I'm wrong..) but I think it's necessary. As always, I hope you guys like it!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

**Clarie's POV:**

"_My, Clarie, look how beautiful you have become."_

_The dark world around Clarie filled with light faster than she would have thought possible. Eyes now open, she realized that she was standing in her room at the opera house, and a man was standing in front of her. Clarie immediately recognized him and gasped._

"_Papa!" she cried, running over and hugging her long lost father as a child might have. She couldn't help it. It had been so long since she last saw him. _

"_Papa, I'm so glad it's you! They all thought you were dead! You and Maman! They sent me away to live with Monsieur de Chagny, and—"_

"_What are you talking about, darling?" her father gently interrupted her. "You thought I was dead? Why, you only saw me but ten minutes ago."_

"_But…" Clarie said confusedly, "I thought…it seemed like…"_

"_You must have been daydreaming, my love," Papa waved it off impatiently, "now are you ready for your recital yet?"_

"_Recital…" Clarie murmured, "but I haven't sung since the—"_

_She stopped mid-sentence, finally noticing the clothes she was wearing: a pretty dress made of red satin._

"_Since the fire," she breathed, finishing the sentence. She looked up, expecting to see her father, but gasped at what was in front of her. Instead of her papa, she saw herself, standing in front of two newly buried tombstones._

_Her dark hair spilled down her back in messy curls. She hadn't bothered to fix it since the funeral. She had not even noticed the splotchy red spots surrounding her eyes still. The black dress she wore was the most decent looking thing about her, and even that was still damp from melted snow._

_Clarie knew the words to come from her younger self's mouth, and she reached forward as if to stop it. But when she tried to speak, the words she wanted to say betrayed her, not leaving her throat. She could only watch as her grief-stricken self said the inevitable words._

"_I'll never sing again." _

_The sentence full of horrible, raw pain left her mouth, and Clarie wanted to scream. She tried to open her mouth to, but she was frozen in place._

_Younger Clarie turned around, glaring ferociously. She seemed to notice Clarie for the first time; and she was furious._

"_Why did you do it?" she screamed as Clarie tried vainly to reply. "You took away my voice! Why did you do it? Singing was everything to me! Why did you do it? Why?!"_

I don't know, _Clarie wanted to say. _I wish I could take it back.

_Hot tears filled her unblinking eyes._

_The horrible voice of herself echoed in her brain, unending._

"_It's your fault! You can never sing again and it's your fault! It's your fault!"_

Clarie woke up with a coating of sweat on her forehead. She was panting heavily, and if she were in her right mind she might have thought to go outside where the air was cooler, but she was not. The nightmare she had just experienced was still painfully fresh in her mind, leaving her unable to put her mind on anything else.

Well, there was one other thing.

The angel of music. He was what was on her mind when she drifted into slumber, and he was there when she awoke. That voice, which had been so hauntingly beautiful last night, filled her ears just as loudly as her dream.

He was perhaps what filled her even more with woe. How he could sing! She envied what he had-that freedom to sing, whatever and whenever he wanted. He was free. Clarie was trapped inside herself, her voice forever bound inside because of a promise whispered by a heartbroken girl.

Shamefully, as if it were a terrible sin, Clarie realized that she wanted to hear the angel again. A hunger for his voice planted itself onto her like a parasite. Clarie knew she should hate herself for it, but at the same time she knew she could not. She wanted to meet this angel, and she was terrified to.

**Erik's POV:**

_The loveliest of blue eyes gazed wistfully into Erik's own. Two perfect, wine colored lips parted to reveal glowing white rows of teeth. A face shaped as masterfully as a statue of Venus held together the features that surely belonged to an angel. The angel said nothing, torturing Erik with her silence._

_Erik felt as if he had never been so in love. He knew he had to tell her._

"_Christine," he whispered, "I love you."_

_A long period of silence followed after his declaration, in which Christine continued to look at him with those torturously beautiful eyes. Erik's heart began to pound terrifyingly fast as he anxiously awaited her response._

_All of this seemed familiar, somehow. He couldn't think of the reason why. It was at the tip of his mind, an answer on the verge of realization. Though he could not put his finger on it, he knew that this had all happened before: Christine meeting him in the dark, his declaration of love, and then her answer._

_Christine gave her answer. Turning her back to him, she silently walked away._

_Erik stared numbly after her. He felt as if pain should be gripping his heart, but he could not feel it. The pain was there, he knew. But he couldn't feel it. It was as if his heart had been numbed to the agony. _

_Tears welled up in his eyes as he watched the dark head of hair drift away, surrounded by shadows. She was gone, leaving Erik completely and utterly alone. _

"_Come back," he whispered, "Christine…please."_

_This was not supposed to happen. It felt wrong. Somehow Erik could tell, this was not what the back of his mind remembered. The ending was wrong. Christine wasn't supposed to walk away; Erik's heart wasn't supposed to be crushed in a mere fraction of a second._

"_Christine!" he heard himself shout. "Christine! Christine!"_

Erik jolted awake at the organ, a steady stream of tears drifting down his uncovered face. He didn't have to question what he just dreamt, for he already knew. It was the same dream he had been having for months now.

But there was one exception.

Christine: she wasn't supposed to walk away.

_Who cares?_ An angry, bitter part of him demanded. _It's true._

It was true, yes, but that was not the part that was disturbing Erik. The truly disturbing fact was that he had the dream at all. He hadn't thought of her most of last night. Just thinking of Christine and that tormenting dream made his stomach twist up. He found himself wanting to think about anything but his former love.

He remembered Clarie.

A slow, unconscious smile spread across his face. When Erik realized this, he immediately squelched it with his more common frown. He wasn't sure why thinking of Clarie made him smile so, but he also couldn't deny that it did. All he knew for sure was that he wanted to see her again.

_But why? _That part of him spoke up again. _You almost killed her yesterday and for what?_

Erik ignored those dark thoughts of himself and stood up from the organ. He knew he would have some work to do if he were to figure out when to see this girl again.

He was not sure why he felt so drawn to her; but at the same time, he didn't care. He needed to see her.

**Author's note:**

**You guys know what I'm gonna say. Review please! Hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'll try to make a long one next, but it might take a few days. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note:**

**Once again, thank you ALL for your wonderful reviews and favorites and so on. I'm so sorry for the wait. I had a major writer's block. You guys are what keep me going, and I am being completely sincere when I say that. **

**Clarie's POV:**

"Mademoiselle!" Monsieur Fontaine cried out in exasperation, "where is your head today?"

"My apologies, Monsieur," Clarie murmured, though she was not, nor had she been, listening to a word he said all practice. Monsieur Fontaine rubbed at his temples, now looking more exhausted than angry.

"Clarie Mercier," he said, trying to keep his voice calm, "you play every note exactly right. You are always exactly on time. Not one note is out of tune. So why is it that you sound like you're only half here?"

"I don't know, sir."

His large fingers dug even deeper at his temples. For a long while he said nothing, gathering his thoughts. After a few minutes of rolling eyes from the rest of the orchestra, the conductor looked up and for the first time examined the violinist.

Beady eyes bore almost accusingly on Clarie, and for a moment regained that usually present furious look in them. The meaty face grew red with indignation, never a good sign. Clarie braced herself for the impact that was sure to come.

"Monsieur Fontaine," a voice boomed out before he could. Clarie looked up and was surprised once again to see Madame Giry. The strict ballet instructor stared menacingly across the stage at the conductor.

"Monsieur Fontaine, I would like to have a word with you," she said, the authority in her voice leaving no room for argument.

Monsieur Fontaine opened and closed his mouth a few times, before following the woman from the stage, looking slightly baffled.

Clarie took the opportunity gratefully. As soon as the two were gone, she dropped her violin gracelessly to the ground and practically ran from the room, not much caring who saw her. All she knew was she could not stand playing violin anymore.

Her violin, though she could make wonderful sounds come from it, was an infernal contraption to her. All it would ever be able to do was cage her voice even more than it already was. Clarie was tired of it.

Eventually, after running for quite a while, Clarie bothered to look around. She had no idea where she was. It looked like no one had come down there for centuries. Dust crept onto all the furniture, resting a thin blanket onto the doorknobs. At the end of the hall was a doorway.

Unable to resist temptation, Clarie opened the door and walked in.

**Madame Giry's POV:**

"What is it, Madame Giry?" M. Fontaine asked impatiently.

Madame Giry frowned. Normally she would never accept that tone of voice from anyone. However, deciding there were more pressing matters at hand, she chose to ignore her pride and cut to the point.

"How long have you known Clarie Mercier, Monsieur?" she said in what might have sounded like a casual conversational voice. Taken aback by the question, M. Fontaine blinked his beady eyes at her.

"What kind of a question is that?" he exclaimed. "She has been at the opera for months now. A year, almost!"

"Yes, but do you know her?" Madame Giry's crisp voice cut through the air like a razor. Somehow managing to still sound calm even as the words left her mouth, she said, "have you even bothered to learn the identity of your lead violinist? Do you know why she is here, playing at this opera?"

"Of course I do!" M. Fontaine cried indignantly, "her parents died in a fire and her guardian, the Comte de Chagny, sent her to play violin in the orchestra."

"What was stopping her from singing?"

The question caught M. Fontaine quite off guard.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded irritably. He brought himself up to his full height, though it did not have much of an effect, with the ballet instructor being taller than him as it was.

Tactfully ignoring his rudeness, Madame Giry turned toward a vase, absently picking at its petals. She was never one to waste time, and went right to her point.

"I heard Clarie Mercier sing once, about a year ago." She didn't turn around but she could picture the bewildered look on M. Fontaine's face as his dull brain tried to comprehend the words leaving her mouth.

"She's…a singer?"

"Was," Madame Giry corrected, turning around. Her face took on a grave expression as she heard the silent, beautiful voice of the angelic girl fill her mind. She felt irritation, for it was not fair-to be living with such a majestic voice every day and not being able to ever release it for the world to hear. She decided to take out her frustration on Monsieur Fontaine, turning her dark, accusing eyes to the confused conductor.

"Clearly you know nothing of the girl you so often mock-no, do not act surprised, I have heard you many times. Let me introduce you to her," Madame Giry practically sneered, her usual stoic expression slipping away as it was replaced by her growing passion. She took a deep breath, and then spilled out the story.

"Mademoiselle Clarie is one of the most beautiful singers I have ever heard. Her voice made her violin look like it was being handled by a child. She easily could have become a prima donna."

"Oh, really?" Monsieur Fontaine said mockingly. "In that case, why didn't she?"

Madame Giry's temper boiled.

"You ignorant fool!" she exclaimed. "How can you know so little?"

Her words had a remarkable effect on the man, reddening his cheeks with shame. She sighed, forcing a softer tone into her voice.

"Clarie Mercier had some…reactions to her parents' deaths," she explained. "She wouldn't speak to anyone for weeks. Some claim that she vowed never to sing again."

Monsieur Fontaine was stunned into silence. For a few moments he stared ahead, unseeing, at a dull looking painting on the wall. When he spoke, it was in a much more humble tone.

"Even so…what does this have to do with me?"

Likewise, Madame Giry also spoke softer, reminiscing in the memory of the girl's singing.

"The girl is not well, Monsieur," she said plainly.

"Not well?"

"There were…psychological effects," she clarified.

"So she's cracked?" Monsieur Fontaine said in disbelief. Madame Giry sent a chilling glare at him, making him flush with embarrassment at his outburst. He lowered his head.

Both adults stayed quiet for a while. A thoughtful silence spread over them. Each were thinking of different versions of the young girl: a singer; a violinist.

"I didn't know," Monsieur Fontaine said at length.

"No," Madame Giry murmured, "I suppose you didn't." And she walked away.

**Erik's POV:**

The blood rushed to Erik's face in an angry rush. The conversation continued to run through his mind, even as he made his way through the dark, empty passages. Words like _psychological_, _cracked_, _not well_: these are what they had to say about Clarie. He would not stand for it.

She was not crazy! Why was it that only he could see that? It was ridiculous, really. Daydreamers were all the same to them, mad people that must have something wrong with them. It was not right, was not accurate, and was not fair.

Beyond these infuriating words, other, more pleasant parts of the overheard conversation filled his mind.

"_Mademoiselle Clarie is one of the most beautiful singers I have ever heard."_

The sentence, so sweet for his ears to hear, was difficult for him to believe. Was it true? Could his luck really have taken a turn for the better? Again, this was hard for him to believe. Yet he could not mistake the feeling tearing at his insides for anything but hope-a feeling he had not felt since he met Christine. A feeling he had not expected to ever feel again.

However, if what Madame Giry said was true, hearing Clarie's voice for himself would prove to be a difficulty. But he could not deny his overwhelming desire to do so.

He rubbed absentmindedly at the deformed side of his face, wondering how exactly he would be able to do this.

"Hello?"

Erik's heart nearly stopped. He whipped his head around in horror, his hand quickly covering his face.

There, bathed in the darkness of the dark room, stood Clarie. Erik's eyes, well-adjusted to the dark as they were, could take in every detail of the girl perfectly: her long, dark curls, her rose colored lips, even her enchanting blue-green eyes. She was lovely, Erik realized; and he tightened the grip on his deformed face all the more.

"Is someone there?" Clarie asked, literally in the dark.

The grip softened. She couldn't see him. He was safe, for the moment. But the beating of his heart did not cease to race. How could it? When an angel was standing in the midst of his demons?

What if she were to see his face?

He pondered on the thought for a moment. How would she react? Would she cry, scream, run away in horror?

_Of course she would, you fool, _he thought mockingly, _you are hideous. What else would she do? _

Erik could ignore many things, but his thoughts were not one of them. Convinced at the inevitable reaction, he decided on one thing. She could not see his face.

"Hello?" she tried again, snapping Erik back to the present. Her voice was more doubtful than before. It made Erik frown. Doubt was an odd thing to hear in her voice.

She was turning away. Erik knew he had to say something, or have her face the light of the hall once more. Adrenaline flooded his veins, as he found that he could not face that. It prompted the single word that left his mouth.

"Hello."

**Author's note:**

**Blah-blah-blah, review, review, review. Y'all know the drill. Again I am sorry for the wait. If you're still out there, review please! I will try to be more frequent with the updates.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note:**

**I wasn't going to say anything this chapter. But gosh darn it you guys are too awesome to ignore! Almost 1,000 views on my first fanfiction! Thank you all so, so, so much!**

**Disclaimer:**

**I'm neither French, nor a man, nor dead. Need I say more?**

**Clarie's POV:**

"Hello."

Despite her initial annoyance at finding a second person in the dark room, Clarie's interest was slightly perked. She didn't recognize the voice-or at least, she didn't think she did-but there was a hint of musicality in it that intrigued her.

_Music, music, music. Is that all you think about?_

Choosing to ignore the snapping voice personifying her inner woes, Clarie squinted her eyes, trying to find the man. She couldn't see a blessed thing past the shadows. Why had she closed the door behind her? Clarie always had been one for unusual decisions; and that wasn't always a good thing.

"I can't see you," she muttered, more to herself than the man. Taking a step back, she put her hand on the doorknob.

"No, wait!" the panicked voice cried out, stopping Clarie's hand from turning, as well as giving her a fright. She turned back around, slightly indignant after being scared, and irritated that the stranger could clearly see better than she could.

"Why ever not?" she said in a half taunting voice.

There was a pause. Clarie's question was met with silence as cold as the atmosphere of the dreary room. Her confidence began to grow, realizing that the voice was clearly more uncomfortable than she was.

A shadow twitched. Clarie focused her eyes onto that point. She still couldn't see anything, but it was better than staring at the wall.

"I-um…" the voice paused awkwardly. Clarie began to feel a little guilty at her taunting question. Awkwardness did not suit the musical voice.

"You cannot see me," the voice concluded.

Clarie nodded, though she knew it probably went unnoticed in the dark. She meditated on the thought, trying to decide whether or not to press.

As usual, her curiosity won over.

"Why?" she asked.

Another agonizingly long pause, and the voice said, "I don't trust you."

It was a simple sentence, with simple meaning. The way he spoke it interested Clarie. A hint of bitterness, and unmistakable grief, was in his voice, but neither seemed to be directed at her. Others might have been offended. Clarie was curious.

"May I at least know your name?" she asked.

Silence.

"My name is Clarie," Clarie said, hoping to encourage him to exchange the greeting.

After another pause, which, to be honest, Clarie was growing accustomed to, the voice said: "I'm called Erik." He spoke quickly, as if trying to say the words before he could stop himself.

"Erik," Clarie repeated, savoring the way the syllables left his mouth. She was finding more and more how much she liked his voice. There was a certain agelessness about it that she had never heard before.

But there was a familiarity to it that she could not quite place.

Clarie felt an old chair under her fingertips and carefully sat down on it. She thoughtfully twirled a stray piece of hair that had fallen out of her bun, considering this stranger. It was nice, she had to admit. She felt comfortable with him, not forced into talking. He seemed to treasure words more than others. He didn't overuse them, saying just what he needed to.

He was silent again. Clarie could practically feel the discomfort radiating from his being. Fearing an awkward moment, she decided to speak more than she was used to. Usually she was quiet, but clearly she had met her match in that department.

"What are you doing in here?" she asked. "It seems like no one has been in this hallway for ages."

"I could ask the same of you," the man, Erik, as it seemed, said. His voice was growing in comfort. Clarie took her small triumph and continued, smiling.

"Yes, I suppose you could," she said, unconsciously twirling the strand of hair faster. "I never have much enjoyed the company of other people." Thoughtfully, Clarie fixed her gaze on what she assumed to be Erik's face. "Something tells me you are much the same, Monsieur."

A dry sound which Clarie supposed was a laugh left his mouth.

"Company…has never been something I am fond of, no."

Clarie's smile turned to a grin. She decided that she liked this stranger.

"Well, then," she said, "perhaps we can escape the company of others together." Raising an eyebrow, she asked innocently: "unless you are entirely opposed to that?"

There was another moment of silence, and for a moment Clarie feared that he was considering it. Considering throwing her back out. Out into the cold, unwelcoming opera hall, where she would once again be forced to fake a smile and offer a laugh when appropriate.

But her fears were put to rest with his next sentence.

"Be my guest."

While relieved, Clarie still frowned. That trace of bitterness was still in his voice. This time, however, she could not keep her curiosity at bay.

"Forgive my intruding…but why exactly do you sound like that?"

The shadow stiffened.

"What do you mean by that, Mademoiselle," the taut, sickened sounding voice asked.

Clarie shrugged, well aware that she had past the point of common courtesy.

"If nothing else," she said, "I can at least tell when one's mind is not actively involved in a conversation. I've certainly been scolded for it often enough." She paused her constant hair twirling for a moment, curious. "And by the way you sound, it would seem that it is not a good place your mind has travelled to."

More silence.

After quite a number of seconds, Erik said, astonished, "I hadn't even noticed." His voice was a mumble, as if he had forgotten the presence of another human being and was once again speaking to himself. Clarie said nothing, politely waiting for him to continue.

He swallowed thickly, and Clarie saw one of his arms move up. Perhaps to pass through his hair.

"That does not seem like a topic one would share with a stranger," he murmured.

Clarie's shoulders moved once more in a shrug. Her fingers began to tug at that strand of hair again.

Who am I to tell?" she questioned. "After all, am I not trying to escape the presence of others?"

"Regardless," Erik said, "it does not seem like something appropriate to ask."

His voice was stern. Heat slowly filled Clarie's cheeks, turning them into what in the light would have been a rosy pink. She turned her face away, not that it much mattered where she looked, since she could not see into his eyes anyway.

After a few seconds, Erik spoke again, this time much more softly. Clarie could have even sworn she heard a trace of-could it be?-guilt in his tone.

"I apologize," he said; and indeed, he sounded apologetic.

Clarie brushed the nonexistent hair out of her eyes, a nervous habit of hers that she was not entirely aware of.

"No," she objected, "you are right. I have been told many times that I tend to forget myself."

_Now who's being bitter? _

"No!" cried Erik forcefully, once again startling Clarie. In what she could only assume to be a moment of passion based on his own experiences, he went on, just as firm and not softening his tone. "No, that is wrong. You must not let people silence your voice!"

Clarie froze. What a curious choice of words.

"Monsieur?" she could barely whisper.

Erik gulped self-consciously. "What I meant is," and this time he did soften his voice, "you should not let people tell you what you should or should not say or do."

Despite herself, as relief began to flood her veins at the clarification, Clarie smiled. "But, Monsieur, did you not just do exactly that?" she asked in a slightly teasing tone.

Erik laughed, this time a much more comfortable, relaxed laugh.

"I suppose I did," he mused, "and I was wrong. Forgive me."

"You repeat yourself, Monsieur!" Clarie laughed. And then they both shared a moment of laughter, genuine and simple.

And then silence once more. Clarie was quite content to remain in its warm and familiar embrace, but evidently Erik had more to say.

"It was love, I believe."

The statement, so short and simple, shook Clarie to the core. Love: could it be that something so pure was the reason for the grief fixed in Erik's heart?

_I suppose it could be possible, _she mused, _isn't love the devil that put the violin in your hands?_

"Clarie!" the voice of Madame Giry suddenly snapped her out of her thoughts. Clarie gasped. She did not want her hiding place discovered.

"I must go," she said hurriedly, jumping out of her chair, "they've discovered my absence."

"Of course," Erik said, and if Clarie didn't know any better she could have sworn that there was a trace of disappointment in his voice. She couldn't bother with this trivial detail for the moment, however. Racing over to the door, she flung it open, allowing the soft candlelight from outside to enter.

She began to walk out, but paused. Without looking back-for there were some things even her curiosity couldn't rudely nose itself into-she said a simple sentence.

"I would like to see-or, rather-speak with you again, Monsieur."

A long pause.

"And I, you, Mademoiselle."

Content for the moment with this response, Clarie left.

**Author's note:**

**I know it might have been a bit slow, so if you read down to here than I assume you (hopefully) are still interested. I hope to speed it up soon. I have pretty much a point A and a point B. The only problem is getting from one to the other. If you have any ideas for that, by all means, review or PM me. I'll take all ideas into consideration. Thanks for reading! I hope to update soon!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note:**

**So, over 1,000 views now. That's pretty awesome. **

**SUPER IMPORTANT NOTE:**

**Okay, maybe it isn't that important, but I need to say it anyway. I was listening to Pandora and this song came on (my last breath, by Evanescence). I was blown away by it and looked up the meaning and what I found reminded me so much of Clarie and Erik that I wanted to cry. I'll show you the best explanation I found for the meaning of it at .**

"… **It is a sad lonely girl that has trouble breathing, so every breath counts. She is holding the last one for *him*, her dream lover. She hopes he can hear her, she starts to pass from lack of oxygen and the dream becomes real to her, until she is brought back from the brink of death with medicine. The thoughts are what she thinks of as she starts to die. It's a delusion caused by a medical incident, brought to life only in her mind...or so they say."**

**Anyway, look up the song. It's amazing.**

**Disclaimer:**

**Once again, I own nothing.**

**Erik's POV:**

So many thoughts were bursting through Erik's throbbing brain that his head had begun to ache. He groaned, shielding his eyes from the candlelight, which had become just as unforgivingly bright as the sun in his dim lair.

It was funny how often this new dreamer seemed to do that to him.

For, of course, it was Clarie on his mind. Always, always Clarie. He did not even know why, and he wasn't sure he much cared. What did it matter anyway? He could not change the way he felt. All he could do was embrace or reject it.

Pictures of the girl, even as bathed in shadows as she was, flooded his mind. Her bright blue-green eyes, blinking innocently in the dark, burned into his memory like a torch. Even the smallest details: slender fingers twirling through strands of shining, ebony hair, were enough to drive him mad with-what was it?-desire? Desire for what?

The thoughts made Erik uncomfortable, and he tried unsuccessfully to push them away. But no matter what he tried, those blue-green eyes continued their relentless journey through his mind.

Erik sighed. He knew what he was to do, of course. There was only one thing that could satisfy his soul. But, for some reason, he kept trying to put it off.

Could he really do it? Betray Christine's voice for another?

Every fiber in his body screamed its denial. Just a day ago, he had been completely in love with Christine! Surely that feeling could not abandon him in so short a time.

And yet, when he thought of Christine, an icy numbness filled him to the core.

An irritated noise left Erik's mouth. He brought his fist to the organ in an angry thump, making a horrific sound erupt from the old instrument. It was incredibly frustrating, always being unsure and never being able to make a choice.

_Just make a decision! _He all but shouted to himself.

For a few more indecisive moments he sat there, considering his options. But the options really weren't options. There really was only one choice for him to make. All he had to do was follow through with it. He knew this, so why was it still so hard for him to do so?

To let go of one piece of his soul and pursue another. So simple and yet so complex.

Sighing once again, Erik stood to his feet. He knew what he was going to end up doing. There was no point in putting it off any further. And besides, it had to be better than being trapped alone with his cold and dismal thoughts.

He walked over to the side table. It was one of his only pieces of personal furniture, and was a somewhat decent looking artifact. Carefully opening its drawer by the brass handle, Erik gently lifted the contents from it: one white mask designed to cover only half of one's face. Perfectly suited for Erik's purposes.

Slipping the mask over his deformities and shame, Erik immediately felt more comfortable. The mask was good, constant, and more familiar than a mother's caress. It gave him the courage to step into the narrow halls of his dim passageway.

It gave him courage to go visit Clarie.

**Clarie's POV:**

No one bothered Clarie for the rest of the day. Even when Monsieur Fontaine saw her he merely nodded, a strange look in his eyes. Meg had looked like she was dying to talk to her as well, but the ballet girl had been quickly silenced by a stern warning glance from her mother in the hall. Clarie was not sure why the two adults were acting so curiously around her, but neither did she care. She was alone at least. Taking advantage of this, she had decided to go to bed early.

Of course, it was easier said than done. There was simply too much going through her mind for sleep to be possible. Like a fish, her eyes seemed incapable of closing to welcome the sweet slumber.

What was on her mind? Why, the angel, of course. Clarie hadn't thought of the man in the attic once since she had entered the bedroom. As soon as her eyes fell upon that mirror, all the events from the previous night came rushing back in an almost painful rush. The singing, how the angel knew her name, the way she ran up to the roof, her inability to breathe…

The way he saved her…

Once again, Clarie found herself slipping quietly into the small, doubtful part of her mind. Was this angel real? Was there truly an angel watching over her. Society, and everyone in it, would say no. Of course there isn't. That isn't logical.

Of course, Clarie was not like them. She never was. And each time she put a hand up to her throat and remembered the horrible choking sensation she had felt the night before, she found herself believing a little bit more.

Standing up from her sitting position on the edge of her bed, Clarie walked over to the mirror. She looked herself over in it.

There wasn't much to see, in her opinion. Her curly hair, which had completely fallen out of its bun, sank down against her shoulders. The eyes which everyone always adored looked tired. Even her facial features, so young and sharp with her youth, seemed older somehow. Her entire appearance looked sunken to her. She looked completely different from the girl in the attic, her blind eyes alight with wonder.

Clarie turned away in disgust, hating her reflection immensely.

"It is only a reflection."

A mix between a scream and a yelp left Clarie's throat, and she fell backwards into her chair. Her heart pounded and her eyes widened, disbelieving.

"It's you again," she barely managed to murmur.

The voice floated through the air, free to move wherever it pleased without a name or a face anchoring it down. Clarie couldn't quite pinpoint where it was coming from, or if it were coming from anywhere at all. Using the nails of her index finger and thumb, she pinched her skin until she was certain that she was not dreaming. Unfazed by Clarie's reaction, the voice continued.

"A reflection cannot hurt you, Clarie," it said, "why, then, do you turn from yours?"

"I don't know, Monsieur," Clarie whispered. Her lip trembled as she said it and she could not help but notice the hint of fear laced in her voice.

Evidently, the voice noticed it as well.

"Child," said he, "why are you afraid?"

Clarie wasn't afraid of him, not directly, anyway. Knowing there was no point in hiding the truth, she decided to be honest.

"I…I'm not afraid of you," she said, "I'm afraid of them…"

"Them?" the voice said.

Clarie gave a small nod. "I'm afraid perhaps they are right."

"Right about what?"

Instead of answering the question, Clarie suddenly launched herself to her feet. Before even she had time to comprehend it, she let out an exasperated cry.

"Are you real or aren't you?" she demanded, looking back and forth across the room. It was infuriating, not knowing what she believed in, or even if she truly did.

There was a slight pause, and then the voice gently said, "I think you know the answer to that, Clarie."

Clarie's breathing, which she hadn't even noticed begin to increase, slowed at his words. She wasn't sure why, but they immediately calmed her down. The voice was beautiful, gently breezing through the cool air. It had a soothing effect on her. If she were fully thinking straight, she would have recognized that it was because of the lyrical tone to it.

**Erik's POV:**

Erik had to sing. He knew he did. It was the only way he knew to make her see what he saw. Granted, what he saw might not have been a cheerful view, but he knew she needed to see it nonetheless.

The words came from his mouth easily. He didn't even have to think. Music was so natural to him. In fact, he found that it was rather easier to sing than to speak. Perhaps that was why singing was so calming to Clarie.

He pondered this for a moment. And then he pondered Clarie. A familiar feeling of anger filled him. It wasn't fair. They think she is nothing more than a lonely orphan who has more or less lost her mind. Erik could practically hear the insults that must have been running through Clarie's mind. Cracked, pitiful, disturbed. Erik could hear it all. His blood was boiling.

How dare they? How dare they condemn this girl to a long life of lonely wandering, where she must always doubt herself, before they even know her? They had their court session, they had their judge, but where was their jury?

If Erik had his way, she would never doubt herself again.

With this in mind, he sang to her; and he poured his soul into the song.

**Clarie's POV:**

When the voice sang, it was at once passionate and furious.

"_They think you a child! These slaves of fashion!"_

Clarie sighed and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the shivers of excitement her body was getting from the pure joy of hearing the angel. She couldn't explain it, this feeling of attraction towards the voice from heaven; and at the same time, she did not want to explain it. Instead, she ignored the feelings of doubt constantly tugging at her, and listened.

"_Pretending that they know you!_

_Ignorant fools, see without seeing_

_Try to deny you the truth!"_

Clarie didn't know what to say. The words left her completely and utterly speechless.

Evidently, the angel could see this too, for he softened his voice.

"_Too long you've wandered alone_

_Far from a fathering gaze_

_Wildly their hearts beat against you_

_Yet your soul obeys."_

He stopped singing, and Clarie opened her tear-filled eyes. How could it be, she wondered, that someone she knew so little about, knew her so well?

"What does an angel of music want with me?" she wondered aloud.

One word came back.

"Sing."

The color drained from Clarie's face, leaving her paler than snow. Her eyes widened like the petals of flowers opening up to reveal two huge blue-green orbs.

"What?" she breathed.

The voice didn't say anything after that, and Clarie realized that she was alone again. And so she would remain, for hours, staring in front of her: alone, aghast, stunned, and horrified.

**Author's note:**

**Just so you know, any references to PotO songs I use will be completely out of order and probably with a completely different meaning than the original version. I'm off school tomorrow so I'm hoping I can update a little sooner next time. So….**

**Review?**


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note:

**Chapter 10? Already?**

**To Summers1- Yeah, it's funny! Clarie was actually inspired by their song Imaginary! xD and as for the rest of the album, I haven't heard all of it but yeah I'll definitely try it!**

**And also michellecarriveau- Thanks for the reviews! I'm always happy to see a new one! I hope this one is good for you too! :)**

**I am SO SO SO sorry for the delay! It has been an extremely long two weeks for me, but hopefully the craziness is over now. Enjoy!**

**Christine's POV: **

"Is something troubling you, Christine?"

Christine forced herself to look at Raoul, offering an unconvincing smile.

"No, everything is fine," she said as nonchalantly as possible. Raoul seemed to believe her and smiled back, before turning back to the road ahead of them. Christine let out a long sigh as soon as he wasn't looking. No, everything was definitely _not_ fine.

When Raoul had taken her to supper the other night, of course Christine had been nervous. Why wouldn't she be? _He _could be anywhere. But she had gone, and the night went by without a hitch. Christine had even rather enjoyed herself with Raoul. And there wasn't a word of complaint from the angel all night. Not while she was with Raoul, not when she was alone in her room.

It was starting to worry her.

She nervously began wringing at her hands, hoping Raoul wouldn't notice. Was he angry with her? Did she not sing well enough? Or was it Raoul?

Christine chewed at the inside of her lip, which was already becoming raw. Suppose it was Raoul that angered him… What was she to do? Stop seeing him?

At that moment, the young suitor happened to look at Christine again with those wonderfully glimmering hazel eyes. His lips parted into a happy smile. And Christine felt her heart jump as her mouth curled into a smile of its own. She knew the answer then, just as surely as she knew her name. In a mere second, that smile had managed to push all her fears and worries away. Not the smile itself, but what she saw behind it. There was love in that smile.

Her heart skipping a beat with the joy and love that only the youthful possess, Christine thought that maybe, just maybe, things would turn out right in the end. Just as long as Raoul was there.

**REALLY QUICK AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**Okay, I feel like I should explain myself. No, I am not against Erik and Christine being together in ANY way, shape, or form. Christine and Raoul in this story has nothing to do with my personal opinion of poto shippings. It just works out more this way. And it's kind of just me trying to show what I think Christine actually was- she wasn't trying to break anyone's hearts, she was just looking desperately for love. :)**

**Clarie's POV:**

"Mother, I'm worried about her," Meg whispered in what she perceived to be a quiet voice as she spoke to Madame Giry, "she won't leave her room. I don't think she's moved at all today."

Clarie kept her face blank, which wasn't hard to do, and pretended not to hear her. Her eyes focused intently on the creamy white wall above her head, but her mind was blank, completely wiped clean except for that one horrid word uttered to her in the dead of night:

_Sing._

After the voice dissolved into air, and the angel left her presence, Clarie had stood there for hours, absolutely horrified. She wasn't sure exactly when she had fallen onto her bed, but around noontime Meg had come in to check on her-probably after noticing her absence at the Sunday brunch-and found her in the exact position she was in now, her pale face colored only by the red in her nose as she had let the fire go out.

"Hmm," Clarie heard Madame Giry say. She could picture without looking the wrinkled face of the aged woman, boring holes into Clarie's head with the intensity of her gaze. "Well, Meg, I am sure Clarie is quite capable of taking care of herself, though I am sure she will appreciate your care. We must not pry, do you understand?"

"But…" Meg protested, growing slightly in volume with her growing concern.

"Meg," Madame Giry said strictly. She lowered her voice for what she said next, but Clarie's sensitive ears easily heard what she said.

"You know how unstable Miss Mercier can be."

Clarie could feel herself visibly wince at that statement. It stung, no matter how much in shock she was. That nagging urge to be alone was suddenly and rapidly overtaking her. Luckily, at least Madame Giry respected privacy.

"Meg," her voice said, "why don't you get some tea and breakfast for Clarie?"

"But…yes, mother." Soon the door was heard closing, with frantic footsteps in the hallway quickly following. But Clarie didn't move yet. She knew Madame Giry was still there; she could feel it.

Sure enough, the woman soon spoke.

"I apologize for the intrusion of my daughter, Miss Mercier. Please, if you need anything, do not hesitate to come talk to me."

It was not an invitation, Clarie knew, but rather sympathy. A quiet sort of indignation grew unnoticed at the pit of her stomach. She didn't need pity, didn't want it.

As soon as the door closed for a second time, she practically gasped with relief. Like she was a puppet on strings, she numbly stood to her feet and walked to the door. She desperately needed quiet again, where no one would think to look for her. And she knew the perfect place.

**Erik's POV:**

Erik was not sure what had possessed him to go back to the dark attic. He did not usually venture into rooms so open, regardless of how abandoned they were. After all, hadn't Clarie just proved how easily he could be discovered in it?

But he found that he didn't really care.

Erik was pleased, a strange and foreign feeling to him, but one he felt nonetheless. He had no regrets about the command he had just imposed on the girl he barely knew anything about. It was about time he began to get things done. How could he possibly learn anything useful about the girl (for his purposes, anyway) if he did not even know what her voice sounded like?

"Hello?"

The voice startled Erik so badly that he knocked over a vase that had been sitting peacefully on a dusty stand. He couldn't care less, as he looked through the dark at the lovely figure squinting over at him.

"Clarie?" he said in disbelief.

The girl's eyes widened with recognition at the sound of his voice. "Monsieur Erik?" she said. "Forgive me. I guess I startled you."

"The fault is mine," Erik admitted, "I was too lost in fantasies to hear anyone come in, I suppose."

Clarie frowned, sitting down once again on the antique chair. It was only a frown, but it disturbed Erik. Why was she so visibly upset?

As if reading his thoughts, Clarie self-consciously brushed the hair from her face and said, "I suppose you are wondering about my foul mood, then?"

"What bothers you?" Erik asked sincerely. Clarie waved him off.

"You wouldn't understand," she muttered bitterly, "no one would. You would think me mad."

"You'd be surprised." Clarie looked unconvinced, so Erik quickly added, "it isn't good to bottle up your emotions." He was surprised at how confident he was becoming with this girl. Not only here, but as the angel.

_As long as she can't see my face._

Clarie laughed a humorless laugh. "Alright," she said, "but you've been warned."

**Author's note:**

**I know, you're sick of hearing from me. I'm sorry, I know you guys deserve a longer chapter after having to wait patiently for it, but it is getting late and I really wanted to post tonight. I promise I will try my best to update asap! I know what is going to happen so I just need to type it out. Things should begin to speed up soon. **

**Review!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note:**

**I told you I'd update! You thought I was lying, didn't you? :)**

**Disclaimer:**

**I, in no way, shape or form, own PotO. **

**Erik's POV:**

"So that's it," Clarie declared, resting her chin on the palms of her hands as she waited for a response.

Erik waited a moment before responding in order to feign shock at the story she had just told. "Wow," he said in a breezy, surprised sounding voice, "so the angel of music is real."

Rolling her eyes-or at least that was what Erik assumed she did from the way her head slightly tilted-Clarie bitterly remarked, "don't patronize me. Admit it, you think I'm cracked."

"No, not at all!" The words poured out before he could stop them. Erik cursed himself for his incredible stupidity. He could _not _give his cover away. Awkwardly, he tried to fix his mistake. "I mean…if you say there is an angel, then who am I to say there isn't?"

For the first time that day, when Clarie looked up, there wasn't misery in her expression. They were lit up with curiosity, just the same as when he had first met her in the attic.

"I thought you didn't trust me, Monsieur Erik?" she said in a faintly teasing tone. Her lips curled into the first almost sincere smile he had seen from her since she arrived in the dark room. Just to be able to glimpse the beam of sunlight felt like an honor to him. Sheer delight welled up inside of his heart and he couldn't help the grin that spread across his own face.

"Perhaps I misjudged you," he said thoughtfully, more to himself than her, to be honest.

Clarie gave a small nod, obviously content to abandon the previous conversation for the blissful silence. Erik realized this and began to panic inwardly. He still hadn't found out why she was so grief-stricken when she came in. As much as he hated to do it, especially after seeing that beautiful glimpse of sunlight that was her smile, he knew he had to press further. Even if it meant pressing the knife a little further into the wound.

"I am not entirely convinced that you have told me everything that bothers you."

The sunlight drained from her eyes, casting the two of them into a darker place than the room shunned by light could offer. Regret immediately pulsed at Erik's brain, but he knew he couldn't take it back, no matter how much he longed to see the brightness of her smile again. He instead waited for her answer, trying hard to contain his urge to apologize, just to see that smile.

"Well…" Clarie said, twirling her index finger absently through her hair. She looked hesitant, as if she knew exactly what she wanted to say but couldn't bring herself to say it. When she did speak, the words came out like a sudden, strong gust of wind.

"He wants me to sing."

Erik's chest automatically tightened up. A small part of him felt hurt, though he knew he shouldn't. It was not her fault that she had a terrible past where music was involved. And it wasn't his fault either.

_But it is your fault that she is hurting right now, _the pessimistic demon in himself noted. Erik tried to ignore it, irritated with its constant reappearances when he least needed it.

_She'd be hurting either way! _He silently protested. _I'm just trying to help her from the pain._

But was that the only reason?

"And what is so troubling about that?" Erik asked, slightly distracted by his own thoughts.

"Well," Clarie said quietly, "I…I made a promise to my parents that I wouldn't."

"Why would they want you to do that?" Erik asked innocently.

"Well…um…" Clarie began. "They didn't. I swore I wouldn't after they died." The words left her mouth in a tumbled rush, and when they were out, she covered her mouth as if she had uttered an inappropriate word.

"Why? Did your parents not like your singing?"

"Oh, no. In fact…they liked it very much…"

"So why would you stop?" Erik persisted. "Do you not like it?"

"Of course I like it!" Clarie suddenly shrieked, launching to her feet. She glared angrily in Erik's general direction, but the look was ineffective with the tears springing to her eyes. She seemed to realize this as well, and looked to the door. For a second, it looked as if she were going to sprint from the room, never to return. But, instead, she did something that surprised Erik even more. She collapsed back into her chair and began to sob.

"I do…I did…I loved it so much…"

All Erik could do was stare in shocked silence, his jaw dropping open as he watched his beautiful angel's world fall apart before him. There are some times in which it would be a crime to interrupt. Erik felt that this was one of them, so he let the girl with the seemingly immortal beauty cry without a sound.

Erik frowned to himself. When exactly did he start thinking of Clarie as beautiful?

There was no time to dwell on this. Wiping her tear-soaked eyes, Clarie began to speak to lessen her embarrassment at having cried in front of a near stranger.

"I'm sorry, it's just…" she laughed nervously. "I guess you caught me at a bad time."

"You needn't apologize for showing your emotions," Erik dared to say.

Clarie gave another curt laugh, her shoulders barely moving as she did so. She continued scrubbing at her face. "Yeah… I guess…"

She didn't say anything more for a while, and Erik didn't dare to either. They sat in a warm silence, not exactly comfortable for Clarie, and yet not uncomfortable either.

"I guess not singing is just the way I keep them alive…"

Erik was more than a little shocked by this statement. Not singing, as a means of preserving her parents? The idea was bizarre to him, though he wouldn't dare tell her that. Music was as natural as breathing to him; he couldn't even imagine having it taken away from him. And he suspected that there was a time Clarie felt this way as well. Honestly, the whole concept was terrifying to Erik. To have something so devastating happen as to make her imprison her own voice.

"I don't understand," was all he could manage to say, though it effectively summed up the way he was feeling on the subject.

Clarie curled in her lips and puffed them out in a cloud of air. Her shoulders hunched forward and her head dipped over, as if her whole body were composed of damp paper beginning to sink down.

"No," she said, as if in agreeance, "I suppose not. I don't understand, myself, sometimes. It's just…I want…" She trailed off, unable to put her wishes into words.

"You just want to remember them," Erik finished, with sudden realization, "you want their deaths to mean something…to prove to them how much they meant-how much they mean-to you." The words had tumbled rather carelessly from Erik's mouth, but he did not regret them.

Clarie was silent for a long minute, worrying Erik. Had he gone too far in his analysis?

"That's…that's exactly how I feel…" Her voice was surprised. Erik could hardly blame her. A perfect stranger (or so she thought) was just able to basically sum up her whole life in a few meager sentences. It was enough to shock someone, he admitted.

But her surprise was not the scared or uncomfortable kind. So Erik took the opportunity to say what he had wanted so badly to say.

"You should do it?"

Clarie froze. "Do what?" she asked, knowing exactly what he meant.

"You should sing," Erik confirmed, his confidence growing along with his longing for her to do just that.

Clarie hesitated, but of course this was to be expected. Erik was able to contain his excitement enough to patiently await her response.

"Why?" she said at length.

Erik shrugged. "Well, seeing how much you clearly love your parents, I am willing to bet that they loved you as well. I highly doubt that, wherever they are, they would enjoy watching you suffer so… Perhaps this angel is a sign… Maybe things need to change." Looking thoughtfully through the dark at the silhouetted figure, Clarie pondered this.

"I do believe they have already begun to change," she mumbled, as if thinking to herself. But before Erik could comment on this, she lunged to her feet and was at the door.

"Good evening, Monsieur," she bade to Erik, turning to leave. Erik's overwhelming curiosity and excitement overtook him before he had time to stop himself.

"So are you going to or not?" he nearly demanded. Clarie paused, her delicate hand lingering on the brass knob of the door.

"Things have begun to change," she repeated, sweeping out into the warm light of the hall without a glance back at Erik.


	12. Chapter 12: The Change

**Author's note:**

**Once again, thank you all for the kind reviews and favorites! They really do mean a lot. The last chapter was pretty easy for me to write so hopefully this one is too! **

**Disclaimer:**

**I own nothing!**

**Clarie's POV:**

Another deep breath, another hesitant step forward, another time reaching for the doorknob, and then not. Clarie sighed. She had known this would be hard-possibly the hardest thing she had ever done-but did it have to be this hard? Doubt once again began to creep up into her mind at what she was about to do. Was she doing the right thing?

But Clarie knew Erik was right, about…well…everything. The question was, would she follow through with it? Singing did always make her happy; that much was evident. But was it worth the heart-wrenching pain she was going through for it? Hell itself must even become tolerable once you inhabit it long enough.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, approaching rapidly. Clarie tensed, preparing to disappear from sight. How she hated company.

"She isn't in her room! I've looked everywhere for her!"

Clarie silently groaned. She wasn't in the mood to put up with Meg's well-meaning attempts to help. Quickly she turned to go the opposite way.

Unfortunately, she was not fast enough to evade her.

"Clarie! There you are!"

Suppressing yet another sigh, Clarie forced a smile onto her face as she turned to face the blonde ballerina and her mother. The younger girl's golden curls bounced as she gracelessly ran toward Clarie, contrasting enormously to Madame Giry, with her black hair pulled back into a bun so tight that it surely gave her a headache.

"Oh, Clarie! I've been looking everywhere for you! Where have you been? Are you alright? You look rather pale. Did you—"

"Meg," Madame Giry interrupted, though she looked just as curious as to where the violinist's whereabouts had been. The strict woman walked over to Clarie, her movements surprisingly swift. Clarie was nailed to the spot she stood in, and she could only swallow nervously as the ballet instructor put a cold hand to her forehead.

"You do look rather pale, my dear," Madame Giry admitted. Clarie frowned. Did she? She hadn't been paying much attention. "You need to eat…and calling a doctor wouldn't hurt, either."

"But, Madame!" Clarie protested. It was just what she needed, someone to remember her existence when she wished most to be forgotten. Just _splendid. _

Madame Giry sent a sudden, sharp glance at her, momentarily freezing her planned excuse. The woman's dark eyes looked almost accusing as she said, "Madame, what?"

Clarie had an uneasy feeling, especially after the way Madame Giry's eyes seemed to contain the ability to stare into her soul. The already cold air that was permanently rested over the opera house in winter felt like it dropped several degrees. Shivering a little, Clarie tried to ignore the rising panic in her heart and lungs.

"Nothing, Madame," she murmured, "I just…don't want to be a bother." The white lie must have sufficed to ease whatever had made Madame Giry grow upset to begin with, for she sighed with a smile.

"Clarie," she said, "your guardians are patrons at the opera. The very least I could do is make sure you don't catch cold. Come along." Before Clarie could offer any sort of protest, Madame Giry had her hand on the girl's back, not in a hurtful way, but enough to drive her where she wanted her to go. Clarie looked hesitantly back at her door, but, as she could not very well get away without raising suspicion, went with Madame Giry without another word.

**Erik's POV:**

To say that Erik was excited would have been a large understatement. His curiosity was overwhelming him. He _had_ to hear her sing (though, if he was asked why, he would not have a response).

At the current moment, Erik was in his lair under the opera. As much as his impatience to hear Clarie sing was, he knew that he had to give her some time, recalling to mind especially the night where she could not breathe. So he decided that he would visit her later on in the evening. It wasn't a bad compromise, considering he preferred that time of day anyway.

Erik sat at his organ, not playing, and allowed himself the luxury of thinking about Clarie. It seemed like every time he saw her, he noticed another detail about her, minor at first, but impossible not to notice afterwards. Like the way her dimples were much more noticeable when she was faking a smile; or the way she was always doing something with her hands; or even the way she bit on the corners of her mouth while she was thinking, as if a subconscious habit. He could feel the corners of his own mouth tug into a smile at the thought.

Clarie was…well…she was wonderful.

**Clarie's POV:**

Relief washed over Clarie like a tidal wave as she finally closed the door to her bedroom behind her. She was finally alone. It had taken a good few hours, but she did it. And in the process she was even able to convince the doctor and Madame Giry that she didn't need any medicine, though a whole three cups of herbal tea had been the compromise.

Clarie observed the room. It was quiet, and dark as the night surrounding it. Any sensible person would have lit a candle, or set a fire in the hearth to protect against the bite of winter. But Clarie felt more comfortable in the dark; and, to be frank, she had forgotten that she even had a hearth in her room, she used it so little. The cold connected her to Earth. That was how she liked it.

Looking in the mirror, Clarie saw a blurry shadow that she could barely identify as herself. Her face was unclear, at least to her. Had someone else been in the room, Clarie doubted that they would even be able to tell that the face belonged to her. She didn't know why, but she found a strange sort of comfort in the fact. It made her more relaxed, this masquerade of night. At least she wouldn't have to look herself in the eye. That would lead to doubt, and doubt would lead to retreat, and retreat would mean her life would stay exactly the same as it was now, and perhaps always would be.

A quick glance under the door revealed that the light was dimming in the hall. The candles were dying. Hopefully, that meant she could avoid any more human contact for the night.

Clarie looked at the walls. They had elegant designs on them (her guardian _was _the Comte, after all), but she doubted they could contain sound terribly well. The acoustics left something to be desired, as well. But another perk of being the niece of a rich patron was that no one shared the hallway with her. It was a fair bet that unless someone happened to pass through, no one would hear her.

_So… now what?_

The question remained unanswered, for Clarie didn't quite know the answer herself. She busied herself by rubbing small circles into the scar above her wrist and below the palm of her hand, a permanent reminder of the fire that changed her life. The smoothness of the burn contrasted sharply to the roughness of the rest of her hand. Clarie tried to force herself to focus on this, tried to avoid thinking and having second thoughts.

**Erik's POV:**

Clarie was sitting on the side of her bed when he silently approached the mirror. The room was so dark that even Erik had trouble making out the shape of her face. His heart began to pound faster with the anticipation of what he was possibly about to hear. He had only met this girl two days ago, and yet it felt like he had been waiting his whole life for this.

There was only one thing left to do: wait.

Erik gently pressed his hand to the mirror.

_Sing, child of moonlight, sing._

**Clarie's POV:**

Clarie jumped to her feet. Her heart was pounding in her ears, adrenaline and blood pumping through. If she could see her reflection, she would have seen the color quickly evacuate her cheeks, only to return in a bright red flush.

_He _was here. Clarie didn't have proof or evidence of any kind. But somehow she knew. She could _feel _it.

Clarie knew it was time. There was no room to back out now. She had to face her fears, her demons, her tortured visions.

Luckily, the room was pitch black, so she didn't have to face herself.

A thought occurred to Clarie. She didn't know what to sing. It seemed like a foolish thing to forget, but she had just been putting so much energy into not allowing herself to doubt that she had not considered this detail. She began to panic, for she could feel the angel's presence more so than ever.

A recent memory flashed across Clarie's mind, giving her an answer.

"_From the top of 'Think of Me!'" _Monsieur Fontaine had shouted, his face red with anger. _"This time, just Mademoiselle Clarie."_

Clarie swallowed. She didn't really have a choice. It was not a bad idea, considering she had been there for nearly every rehearsal that La Carlotta had sung it. She knew the key; she knew the lyrics. If she was to do this, 'Think of Me' would be the best option. So she took a long, deep breath, preparing her out-of-practice lungs.

_Am I doing the right thing? _Clarie couldn't help but wonder. The thought was no sooner in her brain than the panic erupted through her. The doubt had already begun, as she had feared it would. She needed to sing, and _quickly_, or she would be sure to back out.

No introduction was necessary. Neither mortal nor angel exchange a word of greeting. They both knew why the other was there, so neither needed an explanation.

Clarie's lips parted, and at long, long last, she began to sing.

"_Think of me…think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye"_

Her voice began softly, testing its strength, feeling its way through as it tried to readjust to the feeling of musicality. Clarie, however, felt an immediate warmth fill her soul; felt pleasure wash over her and threaten to overtake her entire soul. The change she was feeling was so large and unexpected that a part of her even began to panic. It was as if her heart and soul were being split in two as the change enveloped her.

The part of her that was not panicking pushed her terrified thoughts away. For a few blissful moments, Clarie was able to shut down her brain and just lose herself in music, as she had in such a different time.

"_Remember me, once in a while_

_Please promise me, you'll try"_

Her thoughts successfully shut down, the song became louder and more confident. The notes, which had begun pitchy and a tad shaking, were now clear and lovely. A smile sprung across Clarie's face and she closed her eyes, in pure ecstasies. She felt powerful, like she could once again do anything. And so, she did the one thing she had not dared to do for months.

Placing her right hand on her necklace, and touching the scar with her other hand, Clarie thought of her parents. For the first time, she remembered what her brain had refused to remind her all those dreary and grey months. She remembered her parents at her recitals: beaming, leaping up to their feet to applaud, tears in their eyes with pride for their daughter. Pride for her dear parents filled her entire body, once more reuniting heart and soul, and she threw herself head first into the song, giving it her all.

"_When you'll find that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free_

_If you'll ever find a moment_

_Spare a thought for me!"_

Clarie stopped abruptly, having poured herself so completely into the song, gasping for breath but beaming nonetheless. She had forgotten the angel, looking up to the ceiling as if her parents were there. And if anyone that knew her had seen her face that night, they might have well believed that they were, seeing the depressed girl so transformed. Anyone would have been in shock to have seen her, asking what on earth had changed in her.

Meanwhile, the angel was making an extremely rapid exit.

**A/N:**

**Wow, I wish all chapters were that easy to write! I'll admit, I have been looking forward to this moment from chapter 1. Sorry if it ran a little long, I was going to add more but decided this was enough for you guys to take in for today xD.**

**I will love you so much if you review. I am extremely anxious to hear your thoughts on this. Please? **


	13. Chapter 13: Whisper in the dark

**Author's note:**

**Hey guys. So, we read this short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne yesterday, "The minister's black veil." And… let's just say I looooooved it. It was extremely creepy and sad and UGH amazing. It reminded me a lot of poto, so if you want to know the inspiration of the day, look it up. It's wonderful.**

**Disclaimer:**

**I own a lot of things… Unfortunately poto is not one of them. :D**

**Erik's POV:**

She had not sung for very long. Or, at least, Erik didn't think she had. If she was still singing, he wasn't sure he would even be able to hear her, at the rate he was running through the underground tunnels.

The passage was dark, and Erik didn't bother to stop to light a lantern. He continued charging blindly ahead. He continued this for a while, sheer panic flooding through his veins. Panic and horror.

He turned a corner too early, resulting in him ramming his knee against a corner. The pain was immediate and sharp; he cried out and fell to the ground as he held his leg to his chest. It hurt like nothing else, but the pain was a welcome change, allowing him to avert his focus to something-anything-else, if only for a moment.

And it was only for a moment. Soon his thoughts turned back to Clarie and his everything in him slumped over, defeated. Erik sighed, allowing the thoughts to enter his brain. He surrendered himself to them, a prisoner of his own mind.

"_Remember me, once in a while_

_Please promise me, you'll try"_

It was just as well that he gave up and allowed Clarie to overtake his brain, for as hard as he tried, he could not get her voice out of his head. He wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to. One thing was beyond a doubt certain to him.

Clarie had, and always would have, the single most beautiful voice he had heard in his life. Every note was in key; her voice was obviously trained, and well trained at that. And the passion that he heard in her song-for after the way she sang, the song could surely belong to no other-was unmistakable. If he had thought her violin playing was enchanting, this…well, this was indescribable. It left Erik breathless and without a word to say.

A terrible sorrow had planted itself into Erik's heart. For that in truth was not the only thing he knew without a shadow of a doubt. There was one other thing, and though he was terrified to admit it he knew that he could not deny it.

_Since the moment I first heard you sing. _Was that not how he had described his emotions for Christine? It was uncreative, yes, but now Erik was absolutely certain.

He was- … God, it was hard to admit-he was…

As if Erik's ears needed proof to his newfound feelings, his mouth opened to say the words aloud. When murmured, they sounded more surprised than anything.

"I…I love her."

**Clarie's POV:**

Euphoria sweeter than honey warmed Clarie's entire body. Much to her surprise, she did not feel any regret or guilt for the decision she had made, even hours after the fact. For one of the first times in months, she was not being kept up all night by grief. Just the opposite, as it seemed that she was far too happy to even consider sleep.

Cheerful images from the past danced through her head. There were memories of her parents at her recitals and even just the simple moments at home that Clarie had previously thought long forgotten. Like when she would sing as a young girl, trying to follow along with her mother's much more expert flute playing. Or the times her father would attempt to help her practice as she grew older, and how he and her both would laugh when his inexpert hands stumbled awkwardly across the piano and Clarie would have to slow down for him.

Bliss as pure as that of a child consumed Clarie. She hadn't felt such rapture for months. Her entire being longed for more of it, like a drug that she had gone without for too long. She wanted to sing again, and she knew she would, for it _was_ a drug; it was her drug. It was a drug so consuming that she knew once she returned to it, she would not be able to abandon it. And she didn't want to.

But somehow she was able to restrain herself from setting free her voice once more. She knew she couldn't, not yet. It was not her voice to use so wastefully.

It was His voice. The angel's. There was no denying it. He had given her voice back to her, in a way. She never would have had the strength to do it without him. Although she had never seen his face before, although the only proof she had to his existence was intangible, she knew she owed him her voice. It was, without a doubt, His.

Thinking about the angel made Clarie at once curious and eternally grateful. He truly was a gift from the heavens.

_If only I could repay you… Could I even repay you?_

She did not know the answer to this question, but she knew one thing. Whatever it was he wanted in return, she would be happy to pay the price. And there was only one way to do so.

She had to meet him again.

But where was she to meet him? She could always remain in her room, and wait for him to return (and she was fairly certain he would do so). But the truth was, she was tired of her room. That sweet little hiding place that she had occupied for nearly a year now suddenly felt suffocating and claustrophobic. The space in which she stood closed in around her, threatening to trap her inside its clutches, when she was close to being freed. No, she had to leave.

Clarie snuck a quick look outside her door before leaving, but it was unneeded. The moon had long since begun its descent into the sky; the opera house had been asleep for hours. Indeed, if she had thought to glance out a window, she would see that that lunar diamond was even beginning to inch downward. It was around two, three in the morning.

A dim light caught Clarie's eyes. Taking a closer look, she saw the soft, beckoning light of a candle, peaking quietly at her from the velvety embrace of night. She scooped it up gently, and continued her ascent into the opera house, looking like an acolyte in a church.

Without a plan as to where she would go, Clarie walked through the empty hallways. Her nightdress-one the Comte had given her on his last visit that was much too long-dragged behind her, and her feet were hidden beneath its vast whiteness. As she moved noiselessly through the grand hallways, if one happened to see the pale, ageless beauty of her face, they might have thought her to be a ghost.

Before she knew it, Clarie was at the destination her body had taken her to. The door closed soundlessly behind her, and gently set down her candle, finding herself standing directly on the stage of the opera.

She had to admire it. After all, she had only ever been in the orchestra, and during performances she was far too busy to spare a look at the audience. But here, it was fantastic. Everything seemed so much larger than she remembered it being in her small recitals. For a long while, she stood there, taking it all in; and the dark theatre wrapped its shadowy curtain around her, resting upon her snow white dress.

**Erik's POV:**

At first Erik had thought it a good idea to visit box five (the place he most often travelled to when he needed to think). And as his wide eyes landed on Clarie, he couldn't figure out if it was a mistake or a very pleasant surprise.

The fair girl in question was chilling to look at. A candle at her feet was the only hint he had to her identity, but he knew it was her just the same. The way she stood; the way her presence filled the room while giving the impression that her mind was elsewhere; it could only be Clarie.

A very warm feeling filled Erik when he saw her, and he began to panic. His feelings for her were being confirmed each second he was in her presence. He tried not to focus on this, but it was hard when at the same time he couldn't seem to pry his eyes away from the girl.

"Clarie," he whispered, as if expecting her to look up. She remained unmoving, as perfect in her silence as in her song. Shivers of ecstasy ran through Erik at the privilege to be able to marvel at such a creature as she.

"Oh, Clarie," he said, a hint of melancholy in his desire filled voice.

A noise sounded quite suddenly behind him.

"Angel?" a terrified sounding voice squeaked. Erik whipped around, seeing none other than Christine.


	14. Chapter 14: Façade

**Author's note:**

**Aren't you all lucky? Two updates in two days? I'm just as surprised as you are!**

**Michellecarriveau: Oh no, I'm sorry! I didn't mean for it to be a cliffhanger but… well I kind of did…Sorry! Bear with me, it will get better!**

**I feel it important to reiterate that my Christine head canon is Sierra Boggess. I absolutely love her interpretation of Christine. **

**Disclaimer: **

**I am in high school, female, and have absolutely no French in me whatsoever. Oh yeah, and there's the fact that I am still living… that might be a good reason too… I DO NOT OWN POTO. **

**Christine's POV:**

Ignorance is bliss.

The phrase had brought little meaning to Christine before. After all, how can not knowing something possibly bring any happiness to anyone? But after tonight, she knew that it held more truth in it than she had given it credit. She knew it as soon as she heard his voice.

With Raoul, Christine had found it easy to lose track of her worries. He brought not only distraction, but cheerfulness, something not easy to find in such a life as hers. But as soon as the vicomte had left her presence, all of that worry and fear that had been subconsciously building up inside of her twisted her every way until she could stand it no longer. She knew she had to get some sort of an explanation to the angel's disappearance.

What better way than to inquire of his whereabouts from another supernatural figure of the opera?

How the idea had first gotten into her head, she did not know. She admitted now that it was a foolish idea to begin with. However, once it had planted its seed into her mind, the thought had grown until Christine decided to follow through with it, staying late at the opera house in order to get a proper chance to talk to the ghost.

Her plan was simple: go to the place the ghost was most likely to be (which, as far as Christine could deduce, was box five in the theatre), and there seek the help of the opera ghost. It was a simple plan, and incredibly stupid, which was why she had informed no one of it. But who else was she to ask, when the only thing remotely close to a spirit had disappeared on her without a trace? If she told anyone else at the Opera Populaire about her predicament, they would think her mad. So who else was she to turn to?

This was how she had rationalized her foolish actions in her head as she entered the seemingly empty box of the opera. At once, the darkness was so strong that it seemed like it could consume her, and she hadn't dared bring a lit candle with her. As the door quietly closed behind her, she began to regret the decision, for, though she could not see him, he could surely see her! Indeed, the insidious power of terror grasped coldly to her bones and did not let go.

Almost a whole five minutes passed while Christine stood there, not daring to move. She could see nothing, but she could swear the pounding of her heart was enough to alert anyone to her presence. The horror causing the chaotic beating was so great, in fact, that it caused her to quietly rush back out of the box .

The dim candlelight of early morning (or very late night) greeted her as soon as she was out. She gasped in relief. The dark had taken her completely off guard. It terrified her, the night. It sent a horror so petrifying that Christine realized it had taken her breath away. Mundane words alone could not express the fear she had felt in that room, not only because of the dark, but because she could have sworn she had sensed someone else's presence.

_You have to go back in,_ Christine silently ordered herself. _He is the only one that can possibly help you._

After a few minutes of silently convincing herself, she resolved to return to the box. Before she went in, however, she snatched a candle from one of the nightstands. Barely alive as it was, it still offered some comfort to the frightened young girl.

Taking a deep breath, Christine walked back inside, candle in hand. So terrified was she that she didn't make a single sound as she crept into the box.

"Clarie."

Christine nearly dropped the candle at the sound, not as a result of fear, but one of surprise. Though merely one word was spoken, Christine knew that voice anywhere. It was hard to misplace a sound as full of ecstasy as his. It was the angel, _her _angel.

A thought paused her from tearing around the curtain which would lead to the seats in the box. What was it he had said? Clarie? Christine thought of the violinist. Why would he be speaking her name?

Deciding it was highly improbable that he would, Christine brushed it off, chalking it up to her mishearing the word. Their names were similar, after all.

"Oh, Clarie."

Christine felt her eyes widen to the size of walnuts. Not only had he repeated "Clarie," in a voice full of more longing than she could remember ever hearing, but it was also…human sounding. No immortal could pronounce those words with such woe and sadness as he did. Christine threw the curtain aside, certain now.

Her suspicions were confirmed, much to her horror and sorrow. With the candlelight, it was easy to see the silhouette of the man: for that was what he was. The man she had believed so long to be an angel, she now realized was indeed but a mortal man.

A sickening feeling crept into her stomach at her second suspicion.

"Angel?" she whispered, terrified.

The _man _whipped around, and Christine felt at once petrified and sick to her stomach. Though the mask covered half of his face, she was certain.

The angel was not only a man, but the so-called phantom of the opera.

**Erik's POV:**

Erik didn't know how long he stood there, frozen, staring at Christine. Her facial expressions reflected his own, shocked and sick feeling and even frightened. So many emotions were flooding his mind that he did not know where to begin to try and decipher them.

Christine recovered first.

"You're…you're the opera ghost?" she mumbled in disbelief. Then, as if realizing something too late, she added, "Well…I suppose you're not that either, are you?"

Erik said nothing. With a slightly bitter laugh, Christine continued. "You lied to me, then? All this time?"

Rage boiled through Erik, and he tightly clenched his fists. "You are one to talk of deceit, Mademoiselle," he said. His words were carefully spoken, as if he knew that if he used the wrong one he would lose his barely-there temper. "You and your Vicomte de Chagny."

Christine's cheeks burned hotly. She bowed her head quietly, as if in recognition of this fact, before something strange happened. Fury of her own seemed to blossom inside of her. Squeezing her small fists together, she raised her voice.

"I trusted you! You were friend and father to me!"

Even amidst his fury, Erik glanced back nervously, looking to see if Clarie could hear. If she did, she showed no sign. Her eyes were turned upward, sucked in by the vast darkness that was the opera hall, though they likely were not paying particular attention to the room. The dazed look had returned to her face. Confident that she had indeed not heard them, Erik glared back at Christine.

"Interesting, _Mademoiselle_," Erik said, adding extra emphasis to Mademoiselle, for he refused to say her name, "and what has changed since then? Now that we are here, _face to face_—" the shudder she gave when he said this did not go unnoticed, "—how exactly am I any different? What is it that you dislike? The fact that I am not an angel? Or is it the fact that I am not a prince?"

Christine's already pale face looked even more so behind the candle, and without another word, she turned and ran from the box. But Erik, in such a state of anger and passion as he was, was quick to follow. She had barely exited the box when he caught her by the hand, yanking it to get her to look back at him.

"Well, as much as I hate to be the one to tell you, _Mademoiselle_," he hissed quietly, not wanting to attract the attention of anyone who might be within distance, "angels are not real. And princes are far more lacking than you believe. You want to see the face of the 'angel of music?' Well—take a look!"

In a rage of passion and loathing, Erik ripped the half-mask from his face, tossing it to the ground.

Horrified didn't even begin to paint the expression Christine wore upon her face. A small, quiet part inside of Erik felt a little hurt at her reaction, but the much larger part of him felt satisfied, overpowering the guilt. Still caught in his grip, Christine's eyes filled with tears as she tried in vain to yank herself away.

Erik grinned the grin of a skeleton, and with the shadows the candle threw upon his face highlighting the sunken chasms in which his eyes rested, he looked the part of the corpse as well. Looking at him—especially in his cold-blooded anger—terrified Christine so much that she would have preferred to gaze upon the face of Death himself.

"Let me go!" she shouted, much less caring if anyone heard her (on the contrary, being heard is likely what she was aiming for). Erik held on for a moment more, and then released his captive, satisfied with her terror.

Now free, Christine quickly fled, turning back just once, looking at the mask on the ground and shuddering. Tears streamed down her face in the dim morning light.

Erik, too, looked upon the mask, fascinated that such a simple material possession could be what separates a soul from another. He thought about Christine's reaction, the tears flowing down her face, and he thought about Clarie.

_Or perhaps, _he thought, _a mask is what keeps the souls bonded._

Gently, as if handling a child, Erik scooped up the mask in his hands. He slid the delicate white façade over his face that he didn't even notice was soaked with tears.

**Author's note:**

**If anyone caught the not-so-subtle "the minister's black veil" reference, kudos to you! Sorry if this chapter is awful. You have no idea how hard it was to try and figure out how Erik and Christine would act. Any thoughts on this would be helpful, in case there are more Erik and Christine moments in the future (*hint hint*).**

**Thanks guys!**


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